The Disappearance of Doctor John H Watson
by KnightFury
Summary: Watson has vanished without a trace and Holmes is most concerned (though he does try not to show it).
1. Chapter 1

**This is my gift to I'm Nova. It was intended as a birthday present, but time rather got the better of me. However, as I have not participated in the December Challenge for this year, I have found some time to prepare this now.**

**Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, my dear!**

**KnightFury.**

* * *

I do wish that Watson would at least try to stay out of harm's way, when I am not with him. He is late coming home and I know that it is most likely because he has gone to one of the least reputable parts of London, from which it is extremely unlikely to find a cab.

Of course, it is possible that one of his patients is dangerously ill. I should not worry so; all night vigils can hardly be called unusual at this time of the year. However... I worry none-the-less. Long vigils mean Watson standing at a bedside with not a drop to drink nor crumb of food. He is likely to fall ill himself, for he has not my strong constitution. It is cold and foggy out, as well - a freezing fog, judging by the ice forming upon the window panes. When he returns, I shall have to see that he has a fire laid on in his room and something to eat and drink to hand when he wakes. He will most likely be far too spent to want for nourishment, when he does come home.

The door! He is home at last! Mrs. Hudson is saying something about the weather and late hour, but I catch no response from my friend.

I do not run to the top of the stairs, despite the urge to do so, but instead open the sitting room door, preparing to greet him cordially when he steps onto the landing. But that is not the doctor's tread upon the stairs.

Indeed, the grim expression which greets me as its owner reaches the landing is enough to give the very hardiest of men rather a turn!

"Lestrade!" I grip the handle of the door as a horrible, faint feeling grips me. I fear that I have only wood and hinges keeping me upright! "What is it? Has something happened to Watson?"

He chuckles and pats my arm as he comes to a halt at my side. "Don't tell me you've been fretting, Mr. Holmes! No, no; he's safe - he came to see me, because he was being followed and my house was the closer."

I relax and slowly exhale. "I have not been 'fretting', as you put it, Inspector; I merely expected him home and you looked somewhat grave. Is Watson all right?"

"Yes, he is well enough. Tired, so he's staying at our house. Well, if my wife can persuade him."

The remainder of the tension leaves me. Thank God!

"After all," he continues, "the spare room is always ready and at the disposal of a friend."

The emphasis on the word 'friend' is not lost on me.

"I shall be sure to remind the good doctor," I reply, somewhat coldly.

"You're a queer one," says he, shaking his head. "Mr. Holmes, do you suppose that I do not count you amongst my friends? Or is it that you have only the time for the one?"

It occurs to me a little too late that I am gaping at him. "Thank you, Inspector. You are very kind. But you are weary and chilled! Would you like a brandy, before you step back out into the cold?"

It has taken me rather too long to notice that he is visibly fagged and shivering. It is not that I have failed to see, but I have not been paying sufficient attention.

Lestrade thanks me and steps inside the sitting room. It is, I realise belatedly, untidy. I move my papers from the settee to my chair and urge my weary friend to take a seat. Only when he is seated do I pour the drinks.

"Thank you," says the inspector, accepting the proffered glass. "I should not stay; my wife will have supper waiting for me."

I smile. "Yes, of course. But I could not send you straight back out into the cold again. Do take a moment to warm yourself!"

He nods and leans back, stretching his feet towards the fire. "Don't mind if I do."

"You should remove your coat," I remind him. "I shall set that near to the fire, that it can be warmed through."

He shrugs off his coat and peels off his gloves, slipping those inside his right-hand pocket.

"You are engaged?" he enquires as I take his coat from him, his dark eyes flicking over the papers in my chair.

"Hum. Somewhat. But it is not much of a case; a commonplace murder, if I am not very much mistaken. I have a suspect in my sights."

"Not in my district, or I'd know about it."

I smirk. "No indeed. Canary Wharf."

"Do you think it might have any connection to Watson being followed home from Camden Town?"

"I have not a clue," I reply. "But the thought had occurred to me. While it would mean that the case is of more interest than first thought, I should prefer that Watson not be harmed when he is not involved. I do wish that he would keep well away from the less desirable places, when he is alone - or to at least go into them armed."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what it was about, either, but the fellow was certainly a rough. I did not like the thought of him loitering outside my family's home and was right glad that he slunk off at the sight of me."

I tense with excitement. "Wait a minute! You saw him? Could you describe the fellow?"

He shrugs. "It was dark and foggy, but he was leaning against a lamppost. Not a good place to avoid being seen… the lamp only illuminated certain things, though. He had... quite dark, untidy hair under an old cap that was a little too small... an old, patched-up coat... um... I think he had a scar on the cheek facing the lamp, but it could've just been the shadows..."

Not very much to go on, is it?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but it has been a long day. I was tired and thinking of other things; I really didn't expect to need to be able to describe him after he had shoved off. But I could identify him, right enough, if I saw him again."

Well, that is better than only having a poor description. "Excellent! Thank you, Inspector; it may be important. I shall let you know, if I need you to help in identifying the fellow."

Lestrade sniffs and finishes off his drink. "Thank you for the hospitality. I'll let the doctor know you were worried about him."

"You shall do no such thing! Watson's pride would be hurt. But... perhaps you could remind him not to tend the sick in… the less savoury areas, shall we say, without the means to defend himself."

The inspector chuckles and sets aside his glass. "Consider it done."

"Thank you."

I hand him back his (somewhat warmed) coat and see him out. Thank goodness Watson had the good sense to think of running to our mutual friend, when in danger!

"I'll drop the good doctor back here on my way to work in the morning," he tells me. "And, if I am unable, I shall see that one of my constables does so in my place."

I thank him, shake him warmly by the hand and escort him down the stairs in order to see him out. Truly, I am grateful to him. Oh! But it is deucedly cold out! There is indeed a wretched freezing fog - even the lampposts have ice on them, sparkling in the gas light. I wrap my dressing gown about myself with a chill shiver as I watch Lestrade return to his cab.

"Don't hang about on the doorstep to see me off," the inspector advises me with a wag of a finger. "I may not be a doctor, but I am a parent - I know enough about health and wellbeing."

Ha! I am neither, but I myself know sufficient. All the same... I believe I shall indeed go back inside.

"The inspector said that Doctor Watson would be staying the night at his house, sir," Mrs. Hudson says, coming into the hall as I enter from the vestibule. "Is his wife ill? Or one of the children? I might drop some chicken soup around, tomorrow..."

I conceal a sneeze before attempting to answer. "Watson is staying the night as a guest, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh! You have not had another squabble, have you? You should remember to be kind to the good doctor, Mr. Holmes! I am sure I don't know what comes over you, at times, but you take his good nature for granted..."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She jumps and stops mid tirade.

"Mrs. Hudson," I repeat in a much gentler tone, lightly touching her hand. "We have not quarrelled. Watson was being followed by an unsavoury gentleman whilst on his rounds and thought it best to go to Lestrade's as his house was closer."

"Oh! Oh, thank goodness he is all right!"

"Yes, indeed. Thank goodness he knows Lestrade well enough to go to him, as well. I am not sure that it would have occurred to me to do so, independent as I am."

She smiles and touches my arm. "Would you like your supper, now that we know that Doctor Watson is all right?"

"Yes please, Mrs. Hudson. Now that we know that there is no need to wait for the good doctor's return."

Why does everyone appear to be under the impression that I fret about Watson so?


	2. Chapter 2

Watson is home! I can hear him greeting Mrs. Hudson... and being scolded by Mrs. Hudson! What has he done? Forgotten to wipe his feet? Ha ha! I cannot help feeling a little bit amused, for it is usually with me that Mrs. Hudson becomes irked.

I look up with a quip on the tip of my tongue as he enters, but the sight of him quickly dashes the thought from my mind, for he is pale and shivering.

"My dear fellow!" I am on my feet in an instant and dragging him to his chair. "What the deuce has Lestrade done to you? You look dreadful!"

"Thank you, Holmes," he retorts, covering a mighty yawn with a trembling hand before wiping at his nose without thinking.

I tut and hand him my (perfectly clean) spare handkerchief from my left trouser pocket. "No, really! You look unwell, friend Watson; what has Lestrade done to you?"

He yawns again, giving a particularly violent shiver and mumbles an apology. I merely brush it off and tend to him, wrapping a heavy rug about his quaking form and stoking the fire.

"I have not been able to sleep, Holmes. Every single time I closed my eyes, I could see the reflection of the ruffian that had been following me and... and wondering what he could want. I was worried that he might have gone after you."

"My dear Watson! You know that Mrs. Hudson keeps the door securely locked, come that hour! I was perfectly safe, as well you know."

He nods and sniffles. "I was... it had been rather a long and trying day, Holmes. Being followed did nothing to ease my nerves."

"I understand," I assure him gently, as I pour him a dose of brandy. "Here, drink this. And then you should sleep."

"I have not the time, Holmes! I am late. I should have been at Mrs. Kent's house over an hour ago."

"If you do not rest, Watson, you are going to be at risk of committing some form of malpractice. The doctor friend of yours, to whom you have entrusted my care on occasion, where does he live? Write a list of today's patients, along with a note to him and his address; I shall send Billy out to him with it."

The doctor is weary enough to heed my advice without further argument. Good! I see Billy off with the note and address before turning my attention to my friend. Deciding that sleep and warmth are the most important requirements for the moment, I put him to bed on the settee and play my violin until he is quietly slumbering. I hope that he shall awaken feeling well rested and famished, for only then will I be certain that he is none the worse for his adventures of last night.

"Good God!"

Watson's cry alerts me immediately and I look up from my current case notes.

"Holmes! It is after one o'clock in the afternoon!"

I glance at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece. "Yes, so it is. Did you have a good sleep?"

He snarls impatiently and tosses aside the rugs which I have tucked about him. "I have responsibilities!"

"Yes, Doctor; of that I am well aware," I reply dryly. "You have a duty of care to your patients, whom you might well have inadvertently poisoned in your sleep-deprived state. We agreed that you should entrust your patients to another, for today; you even wrote the doctor a note, explaining the situation."

He rubs a hand across his brow and eyes. "Did I? I cannot recall that."

"Yes, well… I believe you were rather done up. Would you like some breakfast?"

"I should think that you probably mean lunch," he grumbles. "Yes, I believe I am quite hungry. Just... let me wash my hands, a moment."

He stands slowly, apparently testing his game leg, before making his way to the washroom. Regardless of his feelings on the matter, I for one am rather glad that he has stayed at home and slept. I should quite like for him to take an early night as well, if he can be persuaded. He is still somewhat pale.

Mrs. Hudson has clearly heard our voices, for a tea tray is presented before I have even moved to ring for it.

"I am glad the doctor decided to rest," says she, as she sets the tray on the dining table. "He did not look well at all, when he came home, and he told me that he was only going to change his clothes before going out again."

I give her a lightning-quick smile. "I persuaded him. Did Billy get there and back all right? I had forgotten about the freezing fog that gripped London, last night."

She nods. "I told him to mind his step, take his time and shelter somewhere if he were to become too cold, sir. I gave him some money for something to eat and drink, just in case, but he gave that back on his return."

"He is a good, honest lad."

"Did you want him for anything, sir? He is quite well recovered, now."

I shake my head. "Thank you, no."

She turns to leave, but I stop her. "Do we have any ham? And some of those fine sausages from the butcher?"

"I believe we do," says she with a smile. "And eggs. Would you like that for lunch?"

I nod with a chuckle. "Why not?"

"It shall be done, Mr. Holmes."

"Splendid. Thank you."

When Watson returns to the sitting room, he has washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth. He then combs this hair before turning his attention to the tea things.

"Mrs. Hudson is preparing breakfast," I inform him cheerfully. "Eggs, ham, sausages and perhaps some toast."

"Good! I am rather hungry," says he. "I must have been hungry when I came back, but I fear I was too tired to notice. Thank you for persuading me to stay at home."

I shrug my shoulders. "You are no good to anyone if you make yourself ill, you know."

He almost chokes on his tea and stares at me with his cup half-raised to his mouth. "That sounds suspiciously like my advice to you, Holmes."

"It is good advice," I admit with a shrug of my shoulders as I pour my own cup of tea. "One day, I might even find the good sense to heed it."

"Lestrade has urged me to stay indoors for a few days," my friend informs me. "Was that your doing?"

I frown at him. "No, Watson, it was not. All that I said was that I wish that you would either avoid entering the less favourable parts of the city alone or else carry your revolver. Does that sound to you like a suggestion that you should not go anywhere?"

"Sorry, Holmes. No, indeed it does not. But why would Lestrade...?"

"Oh, that is straightforward enough," I reply, leaning back in my chair. "You are his friend - and a good one - you are also a very good doctor. Both are in short supply, I fear."

He huffs a quiet laugh.

"You may laugh, Watson, but you are a valuable man to lose. That he would want for you to keep yourself safe and well does not surprise me. I feel much the same way."

"If it would make you feel less concerned, I shall arm myself better - but not with my revolver, Holmes. It is not a good thing to carry with me, during a house call."

I cannot help but laugh. "No... I suppose not. We shall have to consider rather more subtle alternatives. A concealed jack-knife in a sleeve, perhaps."

"Good heavens, Holmes!"

"It needs to be safe to carry, concealed and easily reached," I explain. "In a fight, you are not going to have time - and one can hardly ask a ruffian to wait while one attempts to locate the weapon in a bag or pocket."

"Holmes, I am a soldier; you need not explain that to me. Besides, I am more than capable of finding an improvised weapon or else using my fists. Well... usually."

I nod. "Yes indeed, Watson - 'usually'. An opportunist will watch and wait until you are sufficiently weary and thus an easier target - you are not on a battlefield facing honourable soldiers. You need to keep in mind that criminals are very... well, different."

He nods. "Yes... you do have a point."

"I have faced enough opportunistic criminals to 'know the enemy', old fellow," I remind him quietly.

"Quite so. I promise, Holmes, to take better precautions."

"Excellent! I should hope so. I would also appreciate it, Watson, if you would agree to send word when you are required to work late and perhaps tell us where you are. I believe Mrs. Hudson would also appreciate that."

He scoffs and raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, very well. I believe I know what you wish to say. In return, I shall do the same, to the best of my ability. Please do bear in mind that it is not always safe for me to break cover, old fellow."


	3. Chapter 3

Watson has not come home. Again. While the occasional all-night vigil is far from unusual at this time of year, I would have thought that he would have sent word, considering the recent danger. I might be over-reacting, but it is unlikely. Perhaps I should speak with Mrs. Hudson and then decide upon a course of action, for I can see that she is also concerned.

"Still no word from Watson, Mrs. Hudson?"

She shakes her head, wringing her hands anxiously. "None, sir. And he did say that he would send word, if he had to stay out after ten."

"Did he?" I turn to look at the clock, though I know well enough that the time is fast approaching midnight.

Mrs. Hudson sniffs. "Something has happened - I feel it in my bones."

I touch her arm and note that she is shivering. Without a word, I snatch up a rug and drape it about her.

"I am going to see Inspector Lestrade," I tell her as I pull on my old, thick coat and one of my old but equally warm mufflers. I am not going to wear anything that I would not wish to ruin.

"Lock the door behind me; I shall not come home without Watson."

"What about food?" she asks of me.

I am not going to be able to eat! "We shall have a feast when we return."

She tuts. "Mr. Holmes, you are not going to be any help to the doctor if you collapse somewhere. Here, take these."

She hands me a small tin of biscuits, a lump of cheese and a cold cutlet. With a shake of my head, I slip them into my pockets.

"Please have a care, sir. Are you not taking your keys with you?"

"No, because you may need to change the locks. If we do not return by morning and there is still no word, then... well... something has indeed happened. Watson has his keys with him; it would be wise to change the locks. Do you not agree?"

She nods and then bursts into a fit of sobbing.

"I must go. I shall request that one of Lestrade's constables stay here, until we are certain that the security of the house is not compromised."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I hope the doctor is all right!"

"He had better be," I growl beneath my breath.

If Watson is found dead, I know what will happen - I would not rest until I had brought my own version of justice down upon the heads of those responsible and cheerfully go to the gallows afterward. For the sake of those behind this outrage, Watson had better be alive and well, when I locate him.

The walk to Lestrade's house takes barely any time at all, for, in my current state, I am capable of moving at quite a clip.

However… when I reach my destination I do not bother to approach the house, let alone knock at the door, for the fresh snow upon the front steps from this afternoon lies undisturbed; the inspector is not yet home. I turn in the direction of the local police station.

Lestrade is about to bump into me! He is walking with his head down and his hands thrust into his pockets for warmth.

"If you were to slip on a patch of concealed ice, you would not have your hands free with which to buffer yourself," I inform the little man. He would probably fall face first into the snow and swallow the pipe in his teeth.

The inspector gives a start, almost dropping the pipe mentioned, and looks up.

I try to smile, but I instead give only a slight nod of greeting.

"Were you looking for me?" he enquires with some resignation.

"Watson is missing," I inform him. "And nobody has entered your house since this morning."

"Then we had better start looking," says he with a decisive nod. "Would you let my wife know that I shan't be home yet, if you have not already done so? I am going to get a party of volunteers together. It shouldn't be difficult; everyone knows Watson well."

I touch his arm in a gesture of thanks and turn back in the direction of the Lestrade residence.

"Mr. Holmes! What an unexpected pleasure!" Mrs. Lestrade greets me cheerfully upon getting the door.

The youngest of the brood is being bounced in an absent-minded fashion upon her hip. He (I think it is a boy) gives me a toothless smile and attempts to hand me a rather soggy rattle, upon which he has been… chewing, for want of a better word.

"My husband is not yet home, but you are welcome to come inside and wait. You look half frozen!"

I adjust my coat and muffler with a shiver. "Thank you, but I am afraid I come with word from your husband. Watson appears to have landed himself in some trouble and Lestrade is assembling a search party."

She nods pensively and moves the child to her other hip. "Yes... the good doctor was in some trouble the night before last, when he came here. But you already know that, I believe?"

"I do indeed. I fear it may be bad, tonight. After last time, he would have sent word if his practice kept him out late."

"Yes... I do hope you find him - and safe and sound. Bless him! He's a good man."

I can only thank her and urge her to take her little one back inside, out of the cold, before turning to go. I share her sentiments entirely.

Upon entering the station, I find the place in uproar. It would appear that every man present wishes to assist in locating Watson.

"I shall begin by contacting Watson's colleague," I volunteer briskly. "He was given a list of the patients on his rounds - that would provide us with a knowledge as to where the good doctor has been."

Lestrade nods. "I'll go with you. If this is about one of your cases, Mr. Holmes, I think I'd prefer to stay at your side as much as possible."

I thank him and we set off together, arm in arm.

"Just so you know, I had a look at our record of convicted criminals. The man I caught loitering outside my home was not amongst them."

"Thank you," I reply. Well, he tried; what more can I say?

"I did try to look for family resemblances, but spotted none," he adds, somewhat apologetically.

I shrug my shoulders. "You tried your best. You said yourself that you did not expect to need to notice the man, let alone be able to recognise him again. You were weary. It was also dark, with a somewhat thick fog. You are not to blame."

He turns to stare at me for some moments. "Watson's missing, I'm no help at all and you're telling me I am not to blame."

I shrug again. "What good would blaming you do? We have a different lead to follow and you have done your best. No, I am not going to blame you for being unable to do better."

He rubs a hand across his eyes and I note just how weary he looks.

"Before you say anything, you don't exactly look fresh as a daisy, yourself," says he as he lowers his hand.

I chuckle. "You appear to know me rather too well."

"You've changed since you met the good doctor," he replies. "I would not say that you were never kind before, but you seem less... awkward about expressing that side to you, now. Before, you… I don't really know how to phrase it, but you are certainly less cold and unapproachable."

"I had not noticed," I confess.

It is his turn to shrug. "You and the doctor do each other good."

Yes, indeed we do. I only hope that we are able to locate our friend in time.

"Mr. Holmes," he clears his throat awkwardly. "I think we should stick together, this time. For Watson's sake."

"What do you mean, precisely? Not exactly rivals, are we?"

He adjusts his muffler and clears his throat. "You've got a nasty temper, when the innocent get hurt. Worse still, when it's a friend. The good doctor wouldn't want you ruining your career or reputation... or worse."

"I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about."

"Then I'll put it another way," says he. "We all lost you once already, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I thought I'd never see you again and I missed you, though you sometimes make me wonder why..." here clears his throat. "That's not fair. You're a good man - and a good friend. I just... it took losing you to make me see - to make me appreciate... anyway, as your friend - and Watson's - I don't want you losing your temper and doing something you might regret. If you know what I mean."

I almost tell him in no uncertain terms that I shall not regret it and that what he might perceive as a flash of temper and momentary loss of control would in fact be something else entirely. But I refrain, choosing instead to pretend not to understand and feign all innocence. It would not do to have him suspecting me of an instability of mind, would it?


	4. Chapter 4

Watson has not been seen now for two days. The last time I saw him, I was trying in vain to persuade him to stay at Baker Street and urging him to ask his neighbour to attend to his practice for at least one more day. We had a row. I said some things which I regret bitterly now - I regret all that took place bitterly, now!

If only I knew why a rough would wish to abduct my Watson, it would be considerably easier to locate him.

My first thought was that a criminal - a gang's boss, perhaps - needed medical attention and that he had therefore been seized for that purpose. My ears in the underground, however, have heard nothing of that nature. This troubles me.

The second (most obvious) explanation is that Watson is in danger due to his association with me. The thought terrifies me, which is why I rather hoped that his disappearance had to do with his profession and not mine. As time has gone on, however...

I have neither ate nor slept - have not even gone home - since Watson's disappearance and still time is running away. He might already be dead. The longer he is missing, the more likely that becomes.

"McPherson!" I bellow, upon discovering that Lestrade's desk is unoccupied. "Where the deuce is the inspector?"

He jumps back slightly at the sight of me. "He's out, Mr. Holmes. Looking for you, actually, sir. He said he'd call at Baker Street."

"Dash it all! I am not there!" I snarl impatiently. "Did he not get my wire?"

Sleep deprivation and hunger do not harm me as they do Watson and I am altogether too anxious to want for rest or sustenance in any case, but I know that I am beyond sharp from a need for food and beyond irritable from fatigue and frayed nerves.

Were he here, Watson would be both calming me and apologising to McPherson, but he is not here. No, no, let us not dwell on that just now. I must concentrate. This is why I have not yet located him.

Upon returning to Baker Street, I find Lestrade in the sitting room, staring into the street below.

"I didn't know where to find you, but I thought you might come back here."

I shake my head and run my hand through my hair. "I could not face returning here without Watson. Mrs. Hudson is beside herself with worry... I could not face her."

He touches my arm. "Then stay with me until we find him. We will find him, Mr. Holmes."

I slam my eyes shut and turn away. "It has now been two days."

"What are you saying?"

I shake my head. "We are both detectives, Lestrade. I am sure I need not remind you that the longer we take to find him, the less likely we are to find him alive."

"Well... he can't have just disappeared. Could he be somewhere at Canary Wharf? You said you were working a case there."

"Some of my Irregulars have been keeping watch, but they have reported nothing out of the ordinary."

"Your scruffy little gang of street urchins?"

I smirk. "You should not judge by appearances, Inspector; they are as trustworthy as I am."

"If you say so. Mr. Holmes, perhaps we should return to the Yard, eh? Compare notes… see what we haven't tried, yet. Maybe we've all overlooked something important."

I nod. "Perhaps we have. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson sends us on our way with a basket of food.

"Please eat something," she begs of me, as she presses it into my unresisting hands. "When you find the good doctor, you might have to tend to him, sir. You would need your strength."

I promise to try and the two of us leave together.

"She's right," Lestrade says, as we clamber inside a cab. "You would need your strength, if Watson needed care. No knowing what kind of condition he might be in. Have a morsel for his sake, if not for your own."

I nod and pull a small meat pie from the basket. It does smell good, so I try a small bite. Oh! She has made this with duck, mixed spices and cranberries. It is delicious! All the same, I struggle to eat more than half of it and so wrap and pocket the rest for later.

Lestrade touches my arm but says nothing. There is nothing to be said.

Returning to the Yard does not raise my spirits. The leads have been exhausted, nothing new has been uncovered... I can feel myself despairing, however much I might try to hide it. There is nothing to focus upon but my failure to find my dearest friend.

Lestrade suggests that we next visit the station at which his division works. We clamber aboard the growler provided for us in silence.

We have not been travelling for long when the inspector decides to speak.

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I blame myself. If I'd paid attention to the rough and made sure that I would have been able to describe him..."

I run a hand across my eyes. "If wishes were horses..."

"Beggars would ride. Yes, I know. I just want you to know… well... I'm sorry. I will put this right, somehow."

"Do you truly suppose me to be blameless? I quarrelled with Watson before he left the house and that could have caused his judgement to be clouded. I should have simply encouraged him to safeguard himself and said nothing more - I know him well enough, by now."

He squeezes my arm. "We need to concentrate on finding the doctor. Blaming ourselves is not going to help."

I nod my agreement.

"I am going to stand by my invitation of earlier and insist that you stay with me for a few days," says he, changing the subject. "Mrs. Hudson is as worried about you as she is about Doctor Watson and I am sure that it would help if she knew you to be with friends."

"Very well, Lestrade. Thank you."

"Chicken stew for dinner. Today is Thursday."

I am not going to be able to eat! "Lestrade…"

"If you could at least taste it, I would be grateful."

I nod, though not without misgivings.

"You need to eat, Mr. Holmes."

Well, if he says so. At least chicken stew is not particularly trying for a strained digestive system, I suppose. I could most certainly not face curry!

The station is in uproar still. Constables are milling about, arguing about whether or not they have found any fresh clues or leads. What do they have? A stethoscope found in a pawnbroker shop. Yes, this is indeed Watson's. Why did they waste so much valuable time by arguing amongst themselves? Why did they not send for myself or Lestrade at once?

Back out into the snow. Back to the growler. Off to the pawnbroker, no time to lose!

Lestrade rests his gloved hand upon my arm without a word spoken. A glance at him tells me that he is as much in need of support as I am and so I take his hand in mine, squeezing gently.

"At least we have a new line of enquiry," is all that I am able to say.

He nods mutely, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

The pawnbroker is not much help.

"Like I already told the constable, Inspector, the person who brought this in called himself Doctor Watson. He had a great big, bushy, ginger beard and green eyes. He was thin, I think, under his coat. The coat was patched and he had a battered old bowler hat on his head."

"Doctor Watson is muscular," Lestrade informs him. "He does not have a beard and he would not be caught dead with a patched coat - not even if he was hard-up."

"Look, he said he was a young doctor who was changing his career and moving abroad. What was I to do? Question him? I'm not a policeman!"

"No, indeed," growls Lestrade. "Did this... 'Doctor Watson' give an address?"

He looks it up for us. "221B Baker Street."

"Naturally," I groan. Another dead end! This criminal is most certainly covering his tracks well.

The snow is beginning again as we step outside, weary and defeated.

"We should go home and warm ourselves," the inspector decides. "You look done, Mr. Holmes, and we can do no more tonight. We should have a bite to eat, try to get an early night and start fresh tomorrow."

"You sound like Watson."

He rests a hand upon my shoulder. "He is full of good advice. Neither of us will be any good to Doctor Watson, if we land ourselves at death's door with a fever, eh?"

He is right and I am forced to admit as much.

"Very well, Lestrade. Perhaps we should at least try to rest before trying again. Where to start next, however..."

"We eat, we warm ourselves and we rest. That is what we do next. Perhaps an idea will come to one or both of us while we are not trying to force our spent brains to work, eh?"

Perhaps.

"I know it is not easy, Mr. Holmes, but sometimes it is the best thing to do. We might be able to do better after resting."

I must admit that I am exhausted. I can see that Lestrade is fagged, as well. Perhaps he is indeed right, though I feel dreadfully guilty to find myself submitting to the inspector's arguments so readily.


	5. Chapter 5

The alley is silent as it is dark. Snow has not fallen here, sheltered as it is, but the snow lying at either end muffles the sounds of the streets. The faint cries of vendors can barely be heard, now.

Stealthily, I creep forward. Not a sound can be heard but the patter of the occasional drip falling from icicles above me.

In the darkness, my boot strikes something. I light a match and almost drop it again in shock, for there lies Watson. What is left of Watson.

My friend's body is lying in a dry or frozen pool of blood. Even in the dim light, I can see that he has been horribly mutilated.

I have to get out - to go back! I cannot breathe, feel faint and sick. Must not contaminate the crime scene - must control my wretched stomach!

I sit up, rather too hastily. The room I find myself in is dark and somewhat chilly. It is also unfamiliar. Wonderful! I have to be sick and I have not an inkling as to my surroundings. I stand, probably swaying, and make my way to the landing. Where the deuce am I? Ah. Lestrade's house. There is no washroom, only a privy to the back of the house.

Noiselessly as I can manage, I locate the gas and turn it up just enough to be able to see. This done, I make my way downstairs and out into the tiny, freezing back garden. The onslaught of icy air only makes me feel worse and I hurry inside the privy not a moment too soon.

When the bout of sickness at last subsides, I realise that I can neither rinse my mouth nor wash my hands and face. I know not where anything is! What to do? I make my way back inside and almost collide with my host inside the kitchen.

"I could hear you wretching out there," says he. "These old houses have very thin walls. Are you ill?"

"No. A bad dream - a horrible nightmare."

He nods his comprehension. "I hoped it was not my wife's cooking," he jokes.

"No, it was not that. Lestrade... I should like to clean myself up. I feel… vile."

"Yes, of course. Here, let me get you some hot water and basin."

With a grimace, I tell him that I also need to rinse my mouth.

"Oh. Of course. I shall get you some drinking water. Would you mind doing that in the privy?"

Of course not! Does he suppose that I would rinse my mouth in his kitchen or parlour?

Upon rinsing my mouth, I decide that I should ensure (to the best of my ability) that I shall not have to come out here again until morning. It is absolutely perishing out here!

Lestrade immediately swathes me in a thick rug, which he appears to have warmed before the fire, when I step back inside.

"Thank you."

"Quite all right, Mr. Holmes. Here, freshen up by all means. Would you like a drink?"

He is holding up the kettle, but I am not entirely confident that I would be able to keep a cup of tea where I put it. The nausea has passed, but I still have an uneasy sensation in my stomach.

"I do not think I should have any tea."

"Ah. Yes, well, you should know what you need better than anyone. Have some brandy, eh? That should help." This said, he pours a generous amount into a glass and tops it up with drinking water.

The brandy does help, as does washing my hands and face. Lestrade tips the used water away and then takes me through to the parlour, urging me to take to the settee before poking the dying embers back to life.

"Would it help if you told me about the bad dream?"

I shiver, suddenly feeling chilled again. "I cannot remember very much detail... only that… I was at the scene of a crime, alone. The victim was Watson."

He nods and sets down the poker. "I have had dreams like that, myself."

"It is not the first time that I have had a nightmare such as that, but… this is the first occasion that Watson has been missing and…" I shiver again and rub at my arms, feeling very stupid and ridiculous.

Lestrade takes to my side. "You do not have to explain yourself, Mr. Holmes. Do you really expect me to judge you harshly? I understand. I expect the dream just… showed you every horrible suspicion and fear that went through your head for the past two days, am I right?"

I nod, unable to trust my voice.

He touches my arm. "Not easy to conceal a corpse, with the entire police force in London on the lookout," he remarks. "A murder scene draws attention - so does a body. If Watson was dead, we would have found him, I'm sure of it. No, he has to be alive - and where there's life, there's hope."

I have not dared hope, but hearing him voice his thoughts like that puts a new perspective on the situation. It sounds right - makes sense. I want to say as much, but a quiet, dry sob escapes my throat.

The inspector wraps an arm about me without a word.

I try to apologise - to at least calm myself - but the more I try to cease the sobbing, the worse it becomes. To my horror and embarrassment, I feel my eyes prickle and my cheeks become wet.

"Everyone cries," Lestrade says simply. "This is a safe haven, Mr. Holmes; you are not going to be judged here. You do what you need to do and we can start again tomorrow when we're both fresh."

I do indeed feel safe here. Unable to stop in any case, I give vent to everything - the fears, frustration, ragged hope, all of it - until I descend into oblivion with Lestrade still at my side.


	6. Chapter 6

I can hear children playing outside. Daylight is creeping in at the edges of the heavy, winter curtains. What o'clock is it? Where am I? Ah, yes. Lestrade's.

I grimace as I pull myself out from beneath the many coverlets provided by my kind host. I have the same problem as last night - the need to visit a washroom when I know damned well that there is only the privy in the garden, to the rear of the building... I would prefer to wait until I reach the Yard, but I am already terribly uncomfortable and doubt that I could.

Lestrade could do with a more modern family home, with modern conveniences. How ever does he and his wife manage with three little children and a baby?

The inspector greets me cheerfully as I enter the kitchen. He is at the table, quietly eating a piece of toast, while his wife shepherds the children out and off to school, with the baby snuggled in a perambulator.

"Are you hungry?" Lestrade enquires, as the children rush out. "You look a little brighter."

"Thank you. I feel it. I think I shall have some toast, if you would just excuse me for a moment."

"Oh. Yes. Naturally, Mr. Holmes," his eyes flick over me, causing me to feel rather awkward. "You do know that there is a guzzunder in your room, do you?"

I do my utmost to conceal a grimace. "I did think that there would likely be a receptacle in the guest bedroom, but I did not wish to make more work for you or your wife. Would you please be so good as to excuse me?" Before I make more work in spite of my best efforts! I am cold and I know not for how much longer I can remain standing here without... incident.

"Yes, of course. Thank you for your consideration. Would you like anything on your toast?"

"Oh, just leave it plain, if you would. I think I would prefer to eat it as it is." After last night I do not want butter - let alone jam, but I am also in far too much of a hurry to give food much thought. Just let me go, Lestrade!

He shrugs. "All right, then. And then perhaps we could decide what to do next."

I agree readily and then vanish. I hope that his cheerfulness means that he has thought of something.

Upon joining the inspector at the breakfast table, he first asks me how I find myself to be feeling.

I cringe at the memory of the previous night and immediately begin to apologise.

"What do you mean, you're sorry? Mr. Holmes, answer this: would you think the worst of me, if you were to see me in a vulnerable state?"

"Well... no... But you have enough to worry about - four children, for a start! I did not mean to trouble you."

He laughs. "Trouble, indeed! That was no trouble - you're my friend, Mr. Holmes. If you want to talk about being a bother, I can list all of the times you were, but last night is not one of them. Stop apologising, please. Let's say no more about it, if you're only going to upset yourself."

I nod, still feeling a little too warm about the ears. "Thank you. For understanding me."

He smiles and pours some tea into my cup. "Think nothing of it. Now, tell me... are you better, this morning?"

"Much! Thank you. As a matter of fact, I have been thinking again about the stethoscope."

"Really?" Lestrade sets down the teapot with a thud. "I thought it was a dead end."

"Well... tell me... the rough that you saw outside, on the night that Watson came here... Could you tell me how well he might have fitted the description of yesterday?"

He narrows his eyes and sniffs. "Well... he was thin - closer to your build than Doctor Watson's - and he did have an old, patched coat on. I noticed that he had a darkish green patch on the elbow facing me... the right one. But it could not have been him, could it? The man who said he was Doctor Watson had a thick beard!"

I shake my head. "Hum... perhaps. Tell me, would a 'great big, bushy beard' disguise the scar that you thought you might have noticed on his cheek?"

"Oh!" his eyes widen. "I think I see what you mean. Yes, it might. I think it would."

I nod, smiling. "I thought as much."

"Do you know him?"

"No, but we know that it is the same man - at least, we know that it is most likely the same man. Perhaps I could open a new line of enquiry."

"I'll help," he volunteers.

I do not wish to offend him, but the contacts with whom I would need to consult would most assuredly be scared off at the sight of a Yarder. Besides, another thought has occurred to me.

"Actually, Lestrade... I wonder if you could question the pawnbroker again. It is possible that he merely lied about the beard and no disguise was necessary."

"Yes, that's a point. I could threaten to take him in, put pressure on the fellow…"

I hold up a hand. "If he is an accomplice, Lestrade, he might be dangerous; take some stalwart constables and have them keep watch - I would not want you to disappear like Watson. I would also like you to merely ask him again for a description, for now. If he is an accomplice and he thinks that we know the identity of Watson's abductor, it could be very dangerous for him."

"All right," says he, adequately cautioned. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. What would you suggest I say, then?"

I smirk. "Let us give him the impression that we are complete imbeciles - that could prove very useful. Tell him that your notebook was stolen while you were on your way home. Here, use the back of this envelope."

He grimaces at me. "You are playing games. Do you mean to make us all look like idiots, or just me?"

"I suspect him," I tell him honestly. "Something in his manner yesterday... should have alerted me immediately."

"Then I'll do as you suggest," says he.

"Jolly good. Try... getting some important details slightly wrong and see what happens. For example, say that you believe he mentioned a patch - mention not a colour and mention it as being in a place where you saw no patches. If he is honest, the mention of a patch would be likely to jog his memory and he would probably correct you with the right description. If he is shielding an accomplice, on the other hand..."

"Ah! So that's how you do it, is it? Very well, Mr. Holmes, I'll try your methods. And after, shall we meet for lunch?"

"Perhaps... where would you suggest? I cannot promise to feel like eating very much - not until Watson is safe and sound at Baker Street."

"Well, here, I suppose... we can talk freely here and the food is better than at the Yard. The best that we could do there is fish and chips."

Yes… I am not at all confident that I could manage something like that. He clearly does not think that it would be wise to tempt me, either. I am grateful for his thoughtfulness.

I actually feel very much better for the tea and toast. Perhaps, however, this has rather more to do with having a plan of action. I make my way to a nearby bolt hole of mine and don a disguise.

* * *

**Inspector Lestrade:**

It is now half past three. I don't know what time Mr. Holmes calls 'lunch time', but I think it is getting late, even for him. He should have been here by now. Either he has found a lead and lost all track of time or… there are two other possibilities that are not lost on me. He's either landed himself in the hands of whoever's got the doctor or he is close on their trail and does not want me to be a witness. Either way, he is likely to be in trouble. What to do?

First port of call is the Yard, but everyone is just amused that I've been 'given the slip'.

"Nice to know you're all so concerned about our golden goose and police surgeon," I snap at them. "You realise both could be lying dead somewhere, I hope? No, you're too busy laughing at me for letting Mr. Holmes out of my sight, aren't you, you block heads!"

"You don't really think that, do you?" Bradstreet asks me. "All of London is on the lookout for Doctor Watson! If he had been murdered, we would have found him."

Yes, I told Mr. Holmes exactly that last night. At the time, I believed it, too.

"Yes... in London. Has anyone thought to spread the word around in the surrounding areas, eh? And what about other cities?"

Gregson smirks at me. "I thought we'd already established that he was not seen boarding any trains."

I gape at him. "Trains are not the only ways out of London!"

Bradstreet touches my arm. "I'll see that word has been spread around. Maybe you should go home, Lestrade."

Go home, he says! What does he expect me to do? Put my feet up? I brush him off and storm out, only realising as I scramble inside a waiting growler that my behaviour was not all that different from that of an angry or upset Mr. Holmes. Oh well, I know how he feels, now.

I decide to call on Mr. Holmes' older brother at his club, next. I have met him before and I hope that he might remember me.

Mr. Holmes the Elder only smirks, when I try to explain my reason for visiting him.

"Really, Inspector! From all that I have heard, I would have thought that this was perfectly normal behaviour for Sherlock."

Even his own brother does not care that he has vanished!

"It is... but Mr. Holmes has been beside himself with worry and working himself toward a fever. This is the first time that Doctor Watson has vanished and this is now the third day. Anything might have happened!"

He waves a hand dismissively. "My brother has the cunning of a fox."

"Foxes get killed by huntsmen every day," I reply. "Even foxes can only live by their wits for so long and your brother has not been himself."

He narrows his eyes at me. "My brother has most likely chosen to disappear so as to take some form of action which he would prefer that you did not know about - either for shame or because it would place you in a compromising position. Be grateful that he has not dragged you into his games, Inspector. Now, if you would please leave, I have rather more pressing matters to attend to."

Thus ends our interview. Now what should I do?

Perhaps Mr. Holmes the Elder is right - the same thought has already crossed my mind, after all - but it is difficult, somehow, to imagine Mr. Sherlock Holmes abandoning me and going off on his own even though he has done it countless times before. It takes me a while to realise that it is because I have never before seen him in a vulnerable state - he always gave the impression, until just recently, of being invincible - nobody is. Is that why nobody else is overly concerned - even his own brother?


	7. Chapter 7

I don't know what to do, now. I can't just go home, so I return to the station. There must be something to do there - there usually is.

Oh, yes - the station is in bloody uproar! I spend a good half an hour kicking them all into shape and giving out orders. And then I make a start on a report.

At least I know that Mr. Holmes is not going to go home, I suppose. No point in upsetting Mrs. Hudson by turning up on her doorstep and telling her that he's gone off on his own or... no, let's just hope he's working alone. As everyone keeps reminding me, it's not unusual.

When the clock strikes six, I prepare to go home for the night. Treat night, tonight (fish and chips), then the missus will bath the kiddies and get them ready for bed. Then I'll go up and tell them a favourite story - probably from the book of fairy tales Doctor Watson gave them for Christmas. I hope the doctor is all right, where-ever he is.

Ethel is glad to see me. But, then, she always is.

"Has Doctor Watson been found?" she asks, excitedly.

Dare I hope? "Not that I've heard... why did you think he might have?"

She shakes her head, suddenly looking tearful. "Well... Mr. Holmes is not with you, George. I thought he was going to stay until..."

"Yes. So did I. He's gone off on his own again - vanished without a word. I don't know whether I'm angry or worried, to tell the truth."

"Both, probably."

Probably, yes. I groan and rub my hand across my eyes. I'm as done now as I have ever been.

"George, you will remember to be kind to our children, won't you?" Ethel asks, very quietly. "After all, it is not their fault that you have had a bad day."

I kiss her on the cheek. "I promise. Thank you, dearest. Shall we go and get our dinner?"

"Yes; the kiddies are ready - they've been waiting for you, good as gold."

They are good - all of them, from the eldest to the youngest. Even Mr. Holmes remarked on their good behaviour. I do hope he's all right, however annoying he might be. I just keep imagining him lying hurt somewhere or gagged and bound with Doctor Watson.

"Are you all right, Daddy?" Tim asks me. He sounds worried.

I ruffle his hair. "Yes, I'm all right, son. It's been a long week, that's all. Come on, let's go and get our dinner."

The children cheer enthusiastically and rush out of the door ahead of us, too excited to heed our warnings about ice. Nice to see some of us still have bags of energy! I link my arm through my wife's and we step out together, pushing the perambulator between us. Little Esther sits up and waves at us, gurgling happily.

Dinner is a cheerful affair. It couldn't be anything else, on a Friday night in this house - no school for the kiddies in the morning, so they can stay up a bit later and play. The fish and chips are always a welcome treat, too (not that Ethel isn't a first-rate cook).

Now that I'm fed and warm, I feel much happier. We play a couple of parlour games before Ethel pulls out the tin bath for me to fill up in front of the fire.

Once bath time is over, I help the missus dry and dress the kiddies. Then, off upstairs for story time. Jack and the Beanstalk, tonight.

By the time the story is over, I'm trying not to yawn. Such a long few days it's been! I'd take an early night, if I thought I might be able to sleep a wink. When I get my hands on Mr. Holmes, I'll give him a flea in his ear, the like of which he has never known before!

I am just trying to talk myself into going up to bed when there's a knock on the door. A frozen fist clenches around my heart and, for a moment, I can't breathe. What's happened? A constable at the door at this time (going on for midnight) is not a good omen.


	8. Chapter 8

Hastily, I unlock the door and come face to face with an ugly old vagabond of some description. He's got a hunched back, grizzled grey whiskers and a nasty cough. He also… well... it's difficult not to wrinkle my nose, let's put it that way.

"Can I help you?" I ask carefully, getting ready to either fight or slam the door. I might face danger every day, but I don't like it knocking on my door in the middle of the night.

He sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Dirty old codger!

"Are you Mr. 'Olmes's friend?" he mumbles.

Oh! What has he landed himself in? "Yes. Why?"

"Ne'er said you was a stinkin' peeler. I migh' no' 've come, if'n 'e 'ad."

I wouldn't call me stinking, if I was you, mate. One of us has seen soap and water within the past day and I don't think it was you, somehow. I doubt you've seen soap in the last year!

"Why did Mr. Holmes send you?"

He shrugs. "Said 'e wants you, didn't 'e? Don't know wha' for, do I? Said 'e wouldn' trust no-one else, didn' 'e?"

Did he? I puff out my chest. "All right, then. Where does he want me?"

He hands me a dirty piece of paper. Mr. Holmes' neat scrawl is on it - an address. Camden Town.

"Right. Well, I'll have to see if we can find a cab. Come with me. Hopefully, we can find one of Mr. Holmes' cabbie friends."

It's surprisingly easy to secure a cab, all things considered. Word has got about that I'm looking for Doctor Watson and more than one local cabbie is in his debt.

Once we're on our way, with me pressed as close to the wall and away from my travel companion as possible, I ask for more details. He starts to chuckle quietly and then bursts into all too familiar gales of laughter.

"Would you get into a cab with anybody?"

"Mr. Holmes! Of all the cold, unfeeling..." I clench my fists, so as to suppress the sudden urge to strangle my so-called friend!

He stops abruptly, staring at me. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, nothing wrong. It's not as if anyone has been worrying themselves sick over you, is it?"

"But... but... I was only gone for a few hours!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to calm myself. It's true. Strictly speaking, he wasn't gone for long at all.

"I cannot fathom what the fuss is all about."

My temper flares again. "Maybe that's the problem. This is all a big joke to you, isn't it?"

He holds up his hands. "Lestrade, please. Stop shouting at me and explain - I do want to understand what it is that I have supposedly done."

Does he indeed? Very well! "I need to explain, do I? After all that has happened? After the things you said last night? I expected you back for lunch! I thought we were going to work together! When you didn't meet me... well... anything might have happened to you - I didn't know where you were! Even if you hadn't been attacked or abducted -"

He snorts and shakes his head… and then doubles up with silent laughter. I ignore him and continue.

"- You could've slipped on a patch of concealed ice and been lying hurt somewhere, this weather. Friends worry about each other! No matter how... oh! 'Invincible' they might think they are or seem to be on the surface."

"I see..." he says after a long silence. "I see that I owe you my apologies, Inspector. I did not realise that you would fret so. It shall not happen again."

What does he take me for? "You think that little of me, do you? I only care about Watson - haven't enough warmth in me to care about more than one friend, is that it?"

He raises his fake eyebrows. "What the deuce are you talking about? It is not that! You mistake me."

"How so? Either you have no feeling heart in you or you think that I am the cold-blooded one."

He shakes his head again. "There could be a third possible explanation, which has yet to occur to you, you know."

"Can there, indeed? Such as what, exactly?"

He groans. "Do not make me try to explain!"

"Why not?" What is he going on about? "Mr. Holmes, you usually enjoy a good lecture."

He shakes his head vehemently. "This is not easily explained. It is difficult. Please, forget that I spoke. If you would prefer to think me heartless, that will do."

It is my turn to groan - trying to understand him is making my head hurt. "I know that you are not heartless. That is not what I said. Very well, then... if I know that you are a good man and you have never doubted my character... then... oh. I think I understand. You doubt your own worth, am I right?"

He shrugs and stares down at his hands. "Well… who would miss me?"

"Are you daft?" I hiss at him, unable to believe my ears. "What do you mean, who would miss you? Lots of people!"

His eyes stare into my face. "Oh, you think so. How many?"

"What do you mean? Loads of people! Tonnes! Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson... me, obviously..."

"How popular I have become!"

I think that was sarcasm. "That wasn't the full list. But I know how upset Doctor Watson was, when you were presumed dead - if anything, Mrs. Hudson was even more so - and I thought I made it pretty clear how glad I was to have you back, the first time we met again…"

"Three people would miss me. Well, that is three more than I would have expected."

"But why?"

He shrugs.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. I can't hold a conversation with you if you will not answer. But I have no doubt that you would be missed by more than three people. There are others at the Yard..."

"Who?"

"Well... Bradstreet... Why are you laughing?"

"Because, Inspector, only one Yarder will exchange pleasantries with me - you. I had thought that you were merely too polite."

I snort. "I'm sure you're imagining it. Perhaps you just try to chat with the others when they're too busy."

"Lestrade, I notice everything. They are no busier than you are, yet you stop to chat - furthermore, you actually look genuinely pleased to see me. You will even stop me in the street, should you happen to see me."

I find myself thinking about my colleagues' apparent lack of concern, earlier today.

"Forgive me if I do not expect any thought - let alone concern - from a colleague."

"You can expect it from at least one," I tell him firmly. "If the others really can't see your worth (apart from the occasional help with awkward cases), that's their affair - and their loss. I am proud to call you my friend, Mr. Holmes."

He muffles a bout of coughing.

"That sounds nasty."

"Oh, pooh," he sniffs, waving the concern away with his hand. "I am perfectly well."

"Says you. I've heard people who have been out freezing for endless weeks of double shifts sound healthier."

He gives a snort of laughter and shakes his head.

"I suppose you think I worry too much."

"No, I know that you do. But it is nice to know that you care, Inspector. I shall be right, never fear. Once we have Watson safely back at Baker Street, I shall be able to rest."

Unless the doctor is unwell. I could not imagine Mr. Holmes preferring his own needs for one moment.

"You do know that you have my support, I hope?" I remind him. "If you ever need it, of course."

"What of your family?"

"They would understand, Mr. Holmes," I assure him. "My wife knows well enough how much I… we... owe you both. You have saved my reputation more than once and the doctor has saved two of my four children."

He coughs again and fidgets in his seat.

"Are you cold?"

"Lestrade, please. Fagged is what I am, but I have strength enough to save my Watson. I thought that you would judge me harshly if I did not bring you with me, or else I might have left you snug and warm at home..."

"You would have felt my wrath if you had!"

He laughs quietly. "Quite so. That is what I thought."

We ride in silence for some moments. But I have to ask… Mr. Holmes is always so clean, after all...

"How do you come to smell so bad?"

He chuckles quietly. "A disguise will not work if there are details which do not ring true."

"You do realise, I hope, that poor people can still afford soap?"

"Lestrade, really! The... aroma... of this outfit is a part of my disguise. Every scent, smudge and patch tells a story and is a part of the character. If there is no story, there is no character - and that is when a disguise fails. Incidentally... I do have a part for you to play, if you feel equal to the performance."

He taps the ceiling, signalling for the driver to stop.

"We should walk the rest of the way and keep out of sight as much as possible."

With a resigned sigh, I pay the cabbie and follow Mr. Holmes down a dank alleyway.


	9. Chapter 9

After a meandering route that seems to go on for well over half an hour, Mr. Holmes drags me down the icy steps of a house that looks as though it's about the same age as mine, but in a sorrier state. It takes moments for him to get the door open (with a key, I hope, though I deliberately avoid finding out).

The house is musty and only moderately warmer than the street we have entered from. We both shiver as we make our way up the creaking stairs, our breaths coming in faint puffs of steam.

"Where are we?" I hiss in a whisper.

"Camden Town."

I snort impatiently, still feeling the need to keep my voice low without any instruction - I have a feeling that we should not be here. "Well, I didn't think we'd walked to Australia, Mr. Holmes."

He chuckles quietly and takes me by the arm to lead me to what appears to be an empty bedroom.

"Do forgive me, Inspector. While I would not usually manhandle Scotland Yard's finest, I should rather do that than risk you falling through the floor - some of the boards are somewhat rotten. Now, do please take to this chair and tell me what you see."

In front of me is a mirror. In that mirror, another mirror is reflected and it shows the street below and the front doorsteps of the houses opposite.

"I should think you know what I can see. I suppose you're expecting me to tell me you're awfully clever..."

He chuckles again, rubbing his hands together.

"You see what I have done? We can watch the rank of houses opposite, without drawing near to the windows. We may observe, without being observed."

"I thought we might be getting to that, yes. I take it Watson is in one of those charming brick houses?"

He deflates. "No. He is not. But in one of those 'charming houses' is a… gentleman... who should be able to lead us to him, provided we remain unseen."

"Ah!"

"Ah, indeed. You follow now, I trust?"

I nod, gazing at the mirror in front of me. "What if we've missed our 'gentleman'? What then?"

"We have not missed him. When did it last snow?"

"I don't know! My mind has been on other things."

He smiles. "Well, it last snowed heavily some four hours ago, yet the snow on the step of interest to us lies undisturbed. The steps from the cellar are quite unserviceable, meaning that he can only come and go by way of the front door. He has not gone out."

I shiver and rub at my arms. "I don't suppose we can light a fire?"

"This house is supposed to be empty. Do you wish to find Watson tonight?"

"I hope you know the answer to that. Can't help wishing it was warmer in here, though."

He nods and wipes his nose in his sleeve. Clearly, this is a thing his 'character' does, because he usually would prefer a handkerchief. "I know. I have been here for much of the day."

"That explains the cough."

He gives me a glare that I'm probably not meant to see. "I am perfectly well."

I shrug. "You wanted me to play at dressing up, I think? I'm not promising anything, but I'll listen to your explanation readily enough."

"That would make a welcome change," he growls. "Very well... I should like you to select a disguise from this chest..."

He gestures to the thing he is sitting on. I had not noticed what it was, what with the darkness of the room.

"I would rather not."

"You have not even looked at them!"

I frown at him. "I'll admit, Mr. Holmes, that what you do is not easy. I doubt I could assume a character and stick to it."

"Very well. The problem, Lestrade, is that you look like a policeman. In a place such as this, you will stand out."

"Just because you know how to pick out..."

He shakes his head and interrupts hastily. "They know what to look for, friend Lestrade. It is not just your clothing, either - the way you stand, walk, talk… everything about you tells those who are dishonest precisely what your profession is."

"If you say so."

I yawn and rub a hand across my face. As much as I want to help, my wits might have been a lot sharper if he hadn't called for me at the end of a long day.

"My apologies, Inspector. I wish I had not taken such a deplorable amount of time."

"Can't be helped," I mutter. "I suppose you needed to be certain…"

"Quite so."

I yawn again and muffle a cough. This house is as dusty as it is cold.

"Would you please change your clothes?" Holmes tries again.

"No," I snap at him. "I'm tired and I'm cold. I really don't want to undress and I don't think I could keep up an act, anyway."

"Very well," he sniffs. "In that case, you will need to leave the house some paces behind me. Let your weariness show - walk slowly and keep your head bowed, so as to follow my footprints. I shall walk pigeon-toed, to ensure that my prints shall stand out to you."

He demonstrates by shuffling around the room, rather like one of the penguins in the zoo. I try not to laugh, but can't help smiling behind my hand.

"No, I don't think I'll have any trouble following those prints."

A front door closes somewhere. In the still of the night, with the snow deadening all sound, it sounds more like a slam. In the reflection of the double mirrors, I see a man carrying a basket gingerly descending his front steps.

"Mr. Holmes! I recognise that man!"

"I had hoped that you might say that."

I frown as I watch him. "The build is the same and I can see that the patched coat is the same... but he did not have a limp, when I saw him."

"Perhaps Watson gave him more trouble than he was prepared for."

That had not occurred to me. "Oh! Yes... perhaps. I hope so."

I'm surprised at just how much I hope so. I hope the doctor has made him regret ever going after him in the first place!

Holmes is gone. I didn't see or hear him leave, but he is no longer standing beside me. I must be even more tired than I thought. With as little noise as possible, I make my way back to the landing, remembering my friend's warning and checking the floor as I go. Now to make my way downstairs in the dark...


	10. Chapter 10

Following Mr. Holmes is easy indeed. His pigeon-toed walk does indeed stand out easily in the snow on the pavement. I do my best to keep my head bowed and concentrate on my fatigue, permitting it to keep my steps slow. Occasionally, my concern for the doctor and eagerness to find him overtakes me; it takes a moment or two for me to notice and reduce my speed again. I suppose the behaviour is not of too much consequence... I most likely look cold, weary and eager enough to get home that I try to move faster than the fatigue will permit.

When I reach the end of the trail, I am outside a warehouse. All is dark, but Mr. Holmes is most certainly inside. The door has been left adjar, most likely frozen as it is, judging by the pile of snow and glittering ice surrounding it. Inside, I can hear a shrill voice that sounds half angry and half insane. He is trying to interrogate someone — a man with a much quieter, rasping voice.

"For the last time! I wants t'know what y' told the police. Why'd yer go to the dick by the park?"

"Told you. Didn't go to police. Lestrade is a friend. Went to him because leg was nearly..." he chokes. "Please... water. Water. Throat too dry."

There's a scraping noise and what sounds to me like a grunt of pain.

"Hahahaha! A' I already told yew! Yer ain't gettin' no more warter arfter der mess yew made wiv der last lot."

If I felt cold before, it is nothing compared with the chill that runs through me now! I may not have very much imagination, but I do know that severe dehydration can make you sick — especially if you drink too much water too quickly. I also know that vomiting when already severely dehydrated is dangerous. Very dangerous. I know a moment of crisis, wondering what I should do. No, I know what to do. If Watson is severely dehydrated, he might die even if we do get him away from here — I have to find him safe drinking water and quickly. I only hope Mr. Holmes can manage.

This is not my area. The police here are not my division. I do not know anyone here and they do not know me. I do not know the beats or the habits of those who tread them. If I am going to find help, my best bet is the nearest station and I had better go as fast as I dare on the icy pavements.

I am in luck! Three streets from the warehouse, I come upon a constable. Breathlessly, I explain that a hostage has been taken and name the location of the warehouse. I tell him that I need drinking water for the ill, dehydrated hostage. He listens closely, his face concerned.

"I can get water from the station, but this might help..."

As he speaks, he is taking a hip flask from his pocket and pressing it into my hands.

"I am not much of a drinker. This is about one sixth brandy and five sixths drinking water. More or less. Would that be any good?"

I am sure it would help and I say so. I then tell him to assemble a party — four or so — from his station and to meet me outside the warehouse.

"I'll sound my whistle when I need you. Is that clear?"

He nods and sets off, leaving me to return alone. I hope I am not too late!

When I reach the warehouse, it is quiet. I cautiously make my way to the door and steal into the deeper darkness, silent as a shadow.

"Where the deuce have you been?" Mr. Holmes' voice snaps at me. "You imbecile, Lestrade!"

I hand him the flask. "I heard the doctor getting mistreated and went after water for him. This was the best I could do without going further and taking even longer. It is one part brandy, five parts drinking water. Will it do?"

"Good man!"

That is the closest I am likely to get to an apology, I suppose. Not that it matters very much — I know Mr. Holmes is worried.

"What happened to the doctor's captor?" I ask as he leads me towards the very back.

"He has been given a taste of his own medicine," Mr. Holmes replies, sounding grimly pleased with himself. "I have a mind to leave him here with neither food, water nor warmth for a day or two and see how he likes it."

"We can't do that. Police brutality."

"You could turn a blind eye, as I am not retained by the police."

"Mr. Holmes! I could not permit you to carry out such a... a skewed version of justice and you know that perfectly well."

Despite the darkness, I know that he is carelessly shrugging his shoulders. "I suggest you appraise Watson's condition before making up your mind."

"How is he?"

He gives a humourless laugh. "You shall soon see."

"I doubt it," I retort as I almost trip over what feels like a wooden crate. "I can barely even see you."

"My night-time vision is better than yours. I forget."

He turns and comes to my side before wrapping an arm about me. His eyes must be better than mine, because he guides me with little difficulty.

Watson is crouched in the deepest shadows, behind some shelving. He apologises when he recognises my voice and begs me not to come closer. I can't understand what my presence could possibly do to distress him, but I do as I am asked.

Mr. Holmes is talking. Gentle, reassuring. More gentle, reassuring and patient than I have ever heard him.

"It is all right, my dear Watson. Here, drink this. Little sips, now — no need to rush it — there is plenty here, all for you. Good man."

There is an unpleasant smell, which I try not to dwell upon. Clearly, the doctor has not been permitted to leave the warehouse for any reason, including washing or easing himself. I take it he has been forced to go in a corner somewhere with little to no privacy. The thought makes my blood boil and I begin to understand Mr. Holmes' earlier sentiment.

"Lestrade, where did you get this?" Mr. Holmes asks suddenly.

"From a young constable. He has gone to organise a small party..."

"For God's sake stand them down! Watson is not going to want a party of constables milling about and gawping at him."

"Mr. Holmes..."

"See to it," he snaps at me. "At once, Lestrade."

"Very well," I return coldly. I understand his reasoning well enough, but I already had them 'standing down' — they were waiting on my police whistle! They might have waited all night.

"Is there anything else, or would you like me gone as well?"

He spins on the spot to face me. "There is no need to be childish."

"For your information, the party are to wait for a police whistle. There is no need for me to 'stand them down'."

"Oh. My apologies."

"I apologise too, for using my initiative. I would have waited and followed your instructions, but, as it was..."

I have the vague impression of him waving a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. You did well. I apologise. What more do you want?"

Some trust would be nice.

"Lestrade, truly you have done well and I am grateful to you for your quick thinking. Does this rescue party of yours know very much?"

"No. I have not mentioned any names. Thought it might be for the best, or else the local division might try to interfere."

"I thank you. Let them know that we have the situation well in hand, but station one or two of the constables to stand outside. Tell them that this is a crime scene — nobody in or out. Send the others away."

"Very well."

"And... you have done much already, but if you could retrieve hot water, soap and a sponge, I would be truly grateful. And a change of clothing for Watson. He has been stuck as he is for four miserable days and I imagine that he would like to emerge from here clean and fresh."

"Yes, please," I hear the doctor croak.

How can I refuse? I assure them that I shall do my utmost and make my way back into the dark street. Under one of the gas street lights, I see the small huddle of constables and go about fulfilling Mr. Holmes' instructions. The beginnings of an argument breaks out about who should remain out in the elements, so I step in and pick out two of the stouter, who should be able to cope better with the icy conditions. One of the skinnier constables is already shivering fitfully and I have not the heart to keep him longer.

"I'll go back with you," I tell the lad. "I have to borrow a four wheeler for the hostage. A driver? No, no, I can drive myself."


	11. Chapter 11

I race the horses through the frozen streets as fast as I dare, my mind on the doctor and how ill and tired he sounded when I left. I hope it's just thirst and that he will be better by the time I get back. Mr. Holmes is with him — Mr. Holmes has learnt as much from Doctor Watson as the doctor has learnt from him and I know that well enough because he has patched me up once or twice, himself. The doctor is in safe hands.

Baker Street at last! I stop the four wheeler and hasten down, taking the front steps with more speed than is wise, considering the weather conditions. No matter; I am all right.

The door opens before I can pull at the bell. I was spotted — Mrs. Hudson has been keeping watch.

"Inspector! Is there any news?"

She is trembling and holding a handkerchief, which she is twisting in her fingers nervously. I touch her arm, allowing myself a small, fond smile.

"The doctor has been found. Mr. Holmes is looking after him."

"Thank goodness," she breathes, sagging visibly with relief. She looks as if she might collapse.

"Mrs. Hudson, might I come in? Mr. Holmes asked me to get a few things..."

I rattle off the list, adding more drinking water to it, plus old rags and towels (I think the doctor had a head injury. That and any other wounds will need cleaning). Giving the good lady tasks to fulfill keeps her mind away from the relief and worry, but I will see that she is well looked after before I go. She probably needs some hot, sweet tea or a hot toddy with plenty of sugar or honey. I ask the boot boy to see that she is taken care of, before going up to the doctor's room.

I select a bar of the doctor's own soap from his wash stand. I then pick out a comfortable but warm suit and comfortable undergarments. No point giving him a clean change if he is going to be forced to wear dirty underthings. What's next? Did he have an overcoat? Muffler? They might be damaged and they are probably dirty... I shall bring blankets, just in case. And the soft towel from the wash stand.

In the sitting room, I cast about for other things to take. Brandy and what is probably Mr. Holmes' hip flask. I fill and pocket it. I would bring food, but giving the doctor something to eat before forcing him to undergo an uncomfortable journey might make him sick. I would not want that. No, it would probably be best to leave that until he is home. Though... perhaps I could pocket the biscuit tin from the sideboard, next to the fruit dish.

What else? What would I need or want, after four days of mistreatment and neglect? A shave, but that would be best carried out in the light, when he comes home. I think I have everything, if Mrs. Hudson can provide the stuff I asked her for.

"They are both all right, Inspector?" their housekeeper asks with concern, as she hands over the bags that she has packed — three of them, chock full of blankets, towels, rags and hot and cold water, plus another bar of soap.

What can I do? She is going to need to be prepared for the doctor's condition, when he comes home. I shall have to tell the truth.

"I don't know how the doctor is, exactly, but he has been mistreated. Refused water, possibly deprived of food as well. He is dirty and he probably has injuries — he was in the darkest place, so I could not see."

She presses a hand to her mouth and begins to sob.

"Mr. Holmes is looking after him," I repeat. "He has been given water, but he wants to leave the horrible place we found him in clean. I can't blame him for that. Let me see... do I have everything? Ah! A lantern. We are going to find it difficult to help him clean himself up if we are unable to see him. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You look after yourself and I'll bring them back safely. Bye for now."

It is snowing hard again, when I step out into the street. I shiver and press myself into the driver's (relatively) sheltered seat. Brrr! I wish I'd asked Mrs. Hudson for something hot to eat along the way, but the thought of the doctor waiting for me and the supplies I have with me urges me to stir up the horses once more.

Mr. Holmes is much kinder and inclined to praise, this time. He thanks me for my speed and thoughtfulness. He thanks me for having the presence of mind to bring the lamp. It is nice to be appreciated.

Doctor Watson takes more water and brandy, with assistance from Holmes. In the light of the lantern, I can see that the doctor's movements are slow and jerky, but his breath makes very little vapour and he is not shivering. These observations concern me and I can see that Mr. Holmes is also worried.

"I am sorry..." the doctor begins, his voice still sounding weak and worn.

"Doctor, I'm so glad that we found you in time, nothing else is going to matter for quite a while," I tell him honestly, drawing a grateful smile from his fellow lodger.

I then realise that the good doctor is probably becoming upset because he is going to need assistance with everything, from unfastening buttons to washing himself. He must have had little enough privacy these past few days as it is.

"I am going to have a smoke outside," I tell them, doing my best to make it sound as if this is entirely on my own terms.

"Mr. Holmes, I shall stay within shouting range, in case you need me."

"Thank you. Do you keep warm — and remember to cover the horses, lest they take cold."

I nod. "I shall see to them. Look after Doctor Watson."

I use two of the old, moth-eaten blankets from the back seat of the four wheeler to cover the horses. I feel a little ashamed of myself for neglecting them, but my mind was on my friend's needs and the pressing urgency to get him away and home.

Once I am confident that the horses will not die of cold, I stand in a reasonably sheltered spot near the warehouse door and light a cigarette. From inside, I can hear Mr. Holmes talking to the doctor, assuring him that tending to him is no trouble. I try not to listen in, concentrating instead on the falling snow that can be seen by the light of the gas lampposts.

There is nothing more for me to do, aside from stand by. Not easy, where such a good friend is concerned. I am not usually a praying man, but my heart is racing and I am not sure that the trembling in my limbs can be entirely attributed to the cold night air.

"Dear God," I hear myself mutter. "Let him live. Please. I don't know how London can survive without Doctor Watson."

I don't know how I can. I don't think Mr. Holmes would even try to, either.

"We've found him. He should be safe, now. Please... just let him live."


	12. Chapter 12

My ears prick at the mention of my name. Mr. Holmes is saying that he might need my help with something.

"No," Watson argues, somehow making his near non-existent voice firm and commanding.

"Watson, you need to warm up, my dear fellow. We need... someone... to hold these hot water bottles in place, while I clean you up and tend to your injuries. You are cold as stone!"

"I know. But it is bad enough that you have to see me like this!"

He has upset himself too much. The voice becomes strangled — I can barely hear the last two words — and he begins to cough.

"Drink this. Tell me, my dear Watson... do you not trust the inspector?"

"It is not that."

"Hum... It is the invasion of privacy."

I can't make out what the doctor is saying. I shouldn't, but I cannot help it — I realise that I'm straining my ears.

"...I am embarrassed. Ashamed."

I clench my fists at the words. The doctor has no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed! The only man in that warehouse who should be either of those things is the coward who did this to him! I want to tell him as much, but I'm really not supposed to be listening.

"You are hurt and unwell. Really, Watson! Have you never seen a patient in such a state?"

He makes a strange noise and begins to cough again. I can't pretend any longer — I have to at least offer my help.

"Is everything all right?" I ask, poking my head in at the door. "Can I do anything of any use?"

No answer — a long silence (broken only by what sounds like a painful sneeze from the doctor) stretches away for what could be forever. Mr. Holmes is quite obviously trying to decide between asking for assistance and giving Doctor Watson what he wants. I wish he would make his mind up!

"Thank you. No, Inspector. I can hear your teeth chattering from here — do you wait in the four wheeler, where you will be very much warmer. One sick friend is quite sufficient at present."

I want to argue, but he does have a point. If I am to be of any help at all, I am going to need to make sure that I stay well. Never argue with logic.

No; actually, I am going to argue back. "If you don't need me for the time being, I think I might see if I can find a vendor selling hot food, still serving."

"Send one of the constables," he practically orders me. "Do be sensible, Lestrade!"

I have a mind to point out the flaw in his logic, but that would mean being insensitive. I doubt the doctor would like to know that I have not given myself any thought at all since Mr. Holmes appeared on my doorstep. I could have — should have — used the lavatory at Baker Street, but it hadn't even occurred to me. How could I have even thought about wasting time, when the doctor's life was likely hanging in the balance?

I shall explain to Mr. Holmes later. Much later, when he is calmer and the doctor is safe and out of earshot.

"I need some exercise," I tell him instead. "Shan't be long."

It means that I won't be on hand if he needs me, but I really am running out of options. I am cold and every shiver makes me feel worse. I'll just have to be quick.

The constables set me off in the right direction, when I ask. I am lucky enough to find a pie seller, on the way back from the conveniences near the lock. Good! I can warm myself with a good meal, when I get back to the growler.

A short walk (that feels much longer) and I am back in the warm and shelter of the growler, eating the hot pie gratefully. It is delicious, though I can't help thinking that anything would seem delicious at this moment.

As the hunger fades, I start to notice how heavy and gritty my eyes feel and how much my head pounds. Yawning helps. It helps a bit, anyway. So does closing my eyes. I won't fall asleep, I'll just rest my eyes. Just for a minute. Just until my head stops feeling as if it might crack open. I can't drive like this.


	13. Chapter 13

Something is hitting me in the face and I can hear someone shouting, far away.

"Lestrade!"

That sounds like Mr. Holmes. He sounds scared — panicked. Why? I don't know that I've ever heard Mr. Holmes sound scared, before.

"Can you hear me?"

Yes, I can hear you. You're making noise enough to wake the dead! Where are you?

"Lestrade! You imbecile, Lestrade! Respond, for God's sake! You must respond!"

I open one eye. Oh! My head aches! Where am I?

"Thank God," Mr. Holmes breathes gratefully. And then he pierces me with a glare. "You imbecile, Lestrade! You are soaked through — did you fail to notice? Freezing cold, soaking wet, no rugs...!"

I suppress a moan and rub a hand across my forehead. "I'm all right. Not so cold, in here. Anyway, I gave the blankets to the horses."

"You should not have fallen asleep," he snaps, still irritated. "I thought you had more sense!"

I try to glare back at him, but I don't know if I manage it.

"I can't remember the last time I had a restful night's sleep. I'm worn out — of course I couldn't stay awake!"

He deflates a bit. Quite a bit. "My apologies, Inspector. Are you well enough to drive?"

"Yes."

His eyes sweep over me, probably seeing more than I would ever tell him.

"I shall be all right," I insist. "It's for Doctor Watson. How is he?"

He shrugs. "Well, I have patched him up to the best of my ability. Thank goodness you brought those rags to fashion into bandages! I am glad that I could put him right — as right as is currently possible — here, before forcing an uncomfortable journey on him. But we are wasting time. You are going to have to stop at your station..."

"And waste more time? What are you thinking of?"

"We have a criminal for you to arrest. You need to see that your men take charge here and deal with him. Call at your station and get a constable to drive us from there to Baker Street, that you can warm yourself in the four wheeler for the remainder of the journey. Your man can then return it after — have one of your own dispatched, to apprehend the criminal. Are you following me?"

I nod, and realise only now that I am pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Repeat it back to me."

I do so and he smiles. "Good man. Could you assist me in getting Watson out and into the four wheeler? He is very stiff and in no small amount of pain."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. But will he be all right?"

He nods. "We shall share the rugs and I shall lend him as much of my body heat as I am able. I shall help you to warm yourself, as well."

I wave him off. "I'm all right. Nothing wrong that a warming drink, dry change and good rest won't right."

"If you are certain. Come, then."

The doctor's movements are less jerky, which must surely be a good sign. He is beginning to shiver slightly, as well. He has as many blankets about him as a man can manage without tripping on them and Mr. Holmes is carrying still more.

"I have secured two of the fine china hot water bottles which Mrs. Hudson supplied beneath his undercoat," Mr. Holmes tells me proudly. "They are being held by slings."

"Very clever."

"They were too heavy and awkward for Watson to hold in place," he explains. "I was going to ask you to help, when it came to my attention that you were in no small amount of danger of succumbing to exposure, yourself. And I then realised that there was another way."

I nod. I should probably thank him for his concern, but I am so weary and cold that it is difficult to feel gratitude for anything much. I just want to get myself home and into bed!

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"Station."

"What then?"

"Get M'Pherson. Tell him t'drive t'Baker Street."

"And...?"

"And... and send others here. M'Pherson returns growler. Not ours. 'Nother comes here. M'Pherson c'n walk 'ere."

"Very good! Good man, Lestrade."

There is a long silence, broken only by the sounds of Doctor Watson's ragged breathing and quiet gasps of pain. I would guess that his leg or maybe his back is hurting him.

"Should you feel too unwell to drive all the way, you are to stop and swap places with me. Is that clear?"

I nod.

"You should take some dry rugs. We have quite enough for Watson and I to share. Now that the snow has stopped, the temperature is dropping yet further. See that the chill is not able to find your wet clothing as you drive."

"I'll do my best."

He nods and his tone takes on a warm fondness I've never heard him direct at me before. "I know."

We help the doctor to make himself as comfortable as is possible under the circumstances. As he tries his best not to grimace upon sitting down, I remember that he has been tied to a hard, wooden chair for four days and that a lot of the work that Mr. Holmes had to do was likely in a place that he would much rather keep to himself. I dimly begin to understand him and sympathise. I would not want a friend to have to patch that region up, either.

"Are you reconsidering?" Mr. Holmes enquires, his eyes sweeping over me in his customary searching manner.

I shake my head. "The doctor needs you, Mr. Holmes. I shall be all right."

"Thank you," says he with gratitude. "Here, take these rugs and see that you keep warm. I shall remind you: should you become weary, unwell or simply too chilled to continue, exchange places with me."

I promise to do so, though I would rather not. Of the two of us, Mr. Holmes is better at keeping the doctor calm and reasonably comfortable. I have only a vague idea as to what our friend has been through, since his disappearance.

The drive to the station feels like an eternity! Even with the blankets around me, the freezing air is biting at my wrists and any other part of me it can find as I move and the blankets slip. Still, at least the snow has stopped.

Here is the station, at last! I pull up and clamber down, shaking from head to foot with cold. I hand the blankets to Mr. Holmes and try to still my tremors before I march inside.

"Inspector Lestrade!" McPherson spots me and hastens to my side, doing the worst thing he could do — touching my wet clothes and pressing them closer to my skin.

"Ugh!"

"Are you all right, Inspector?"

"No. I'm tired and drenched and it's not over yet. I need a growler to get to this address as fast as a horse can run. There's a criminal there waiting — gagged and bound. Cooper, I want you to take a party of four. Be sharp, man! Oh, and you'll want to turn a party from Division S away — see that you thank them for a job well done. Got that? Good. McPherson, you're coming with me. Come on."

I don't feel right. Not at all. I'm glad McPherson can drive the rest of the way and leave me to sit in the warm shelter of the growler. I'm too cold, too weary. I want — I need — to sleep!

The drive to Baker Street is over too soon for my liking. Now I have to stand again, get back out, into the snow. For my friends, then.

Mrs. Hudson is at the door, holding it open. The boy is helping Mr. Holmes to get the doctor inside. McPherson is ensuring that we have everything, before driving to Camden Town.

"Go on inside, Inspector," Mrs. Hudson urges me. "You must be chilled to the bone!"

She says something about a doctor's couch... I catch a mention of fires, I think... I don't know.

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes calls, drawing the attention of the both of us. "Could you find the inspector a dry change and perhaps draw him a warm bath — warm; not too hot."

"Of course I can," she agrees, guiding me up the stairs without another word.

My mind is in a bit of a whirl... I should be going home to my wife — she must be worried! I should be helping to get the doctor settled. I should not be taking a bath, when all I need is a good sleep! I should not be taking care away from Doctor Watson!


	14. Chapter 14

The bath is good — warming. Mrs. Hudson bustles in and out, making sure that I am all right, taking away my wet clothes, laying out clean, fresh clothing... She does not look in my direction, but is perfectly practical all the while (and does not pointedly shield her eyes as she enters, passes or leaves).

I scramble out, onto the waiting towel the moment the water begins to cool, pulling out the plug. Almost the exact moment I have a towel about me, Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door. She has heard me let the water out and wants to know if I would like some broth. That would be appreciated and I say so.

I was not expecting a nightshirt and dressing gown... I was expecting to go home. But they are warm — I think they must have been freshly ironed! What have I done to deserve such consideration?

Instead of being shown downstairs to the parlour, as I would expect, I am taken through to the doctor's bedroom. The fire is lit and I am urged to sit before it by the kindly housekeeper. A hot dish of broth is pressed into my hands and I am encouraged to have as much as I can. It is good! I take it gratefully, feeling it chase away the last of the lingering chill.

When the broth is finished with, I am gently herded into the waiting bed. The sheets have been warmed and it is so, so welcoming.

"What about Doctor Watson?" I ask, trying not to fall asleep at once.

Mrs. Hudson smiles. "The doctor is going to sleep in the sitting room, Inspector. Mr. Holmes thought it best that he watch over him. Will you be all right? I have laid out fresh handkerchiefs and drinking water for you on the bedside, just in case. Will you want anything else?"

"My wife..."

"She knows where you are and that everyone is safe. Please, try not to worry, Inspector. If you have all you need, I shall let you sleep."

I thank her and try to settle down. The doctor is safe and warm downstairs. I am safe and warm. I am comfortable. I can sleep — it is all right. I yawn and curl up, full and comfortable at last.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have done. The room is in darkness and it feels cooler... I take it the fire has gone out. What woke me? I'm certainly still tired enough to slumber on and all seems perfectly quiet, outside. The house is quiet and all.

As I move to pull and wrap the blankets about me closer, I realise what it was that interrupted my rest. Trouble is, I don't really want to go downstairs to the lavatory, which I know is situated between Mr. Holmes' bedroom and the parlour. I creep out of bed and explore the room, hoping I am not going to have to sneak downstairs and disturb Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes (I do not fancy having to explain myself to the detective — let alone fend him off!).

I find what I need under the doctor's wash stand. The trouble now, though, is that I want to wash my hands and there is no water aside from the drinking water. I shall have to use the hot faucet in the bath.

Finally, I can return to bed. I can't have been up for longer than ten minutes, but I am freezing! I suppose I must still be very tired.

I think I was dreaming. Something about steam-powered four wheelers... and Mr. Holmes scolding me... I think. It is already fading away, like footprints on a shore before a turning tide. My head aches when I try to remember, so I just lie quietly for a moment. Then I notice the water beside the bed and pour a small quantity into the waiting glass. It is cool and good, but swallowing it does make me feel cold. What o'clock is it? Eleven? It cannot be eleven at night, because it was after that when Mr. Holmes called for me. It must be nearly lunch time!

I pull myself from the bed and immediately begin to shiver. I am definitely still too tired. My eyes are still gritty and, for some reason, my nose feels dry and itchy.

The parlour is quiet when I go in, but Mr. Holmes is not surprised to see me. He is sitting up, close to the fire (which he has obviously kept burning all night long). I warm my hands gratefully, while his dark-circled eyes assess me.

"How are you?" he asks, keeping his voice quiet.

I shiver slightly and sniff. "Still tired."

He nods. "You are still somewhat pale, Lestrade."

"Bit of a headache. Like I said, I'm still a bit tired."

"Hum. You should probably take a day or two off of work, before you find yourself dangerously ill."

I almost shout at him, but I remember in time that Doctor Watson is sleeping. I decide to use sarcasm instead. "Like you would?"

"That is the lowest form of wit, Inspector."

"I am not in the mood."

His eyes make a second study of me. "You are pale and shivering. Weary. You should probably stay indoors for a day or so. Should you succumb to a chill or... something worse... it would be my fault."

I raise an irritated eyebrow at those last words and he nods, his eyes down. Apparently, he would like to explain to me why he blames himself, though I believe it is because he thinks he should be able to control the entire world.

"I... I had the..." he squirms, obviously looking for the right words to say. "When I heard from my brother that you were worried — about me — I had the nerve to actually be amused. It was wrong of me — I see that, now. You are my friend, not just Watson's. You were bound to fear for me. Had I regarded you half as much, I would at least have sent you word and let you know that you need not fret. I am sorry, Lestrade."

"No harm done," I reply quietly, my voice suddenly a little hoarse. "You were thinking of the doctor. I understand. Had you stopped to think of me, too..."

I cast our mutual friend a long glance over my shoulder. He is so still and looks small, curled as he is upon his own doctor's couch. Too small to be the broad man I know and far too still... he has his back to the fire, so I am unable to see his face. I can't help but think that we were only just in time — the doctor was too cold, had been without water for too long... we could easily have been too late. If Mr. Holmes had been distracted or had he found his lead just a little later... well... it just doesn't bear thinking about.

Mr. Holmes is beside me before I am even aware that he has moved. He touches my arm.

"How is the doctor?" I ask. It seems to me that his breaths are still noisy — unless he is snoring. Does the doctor usually snore?

"Recovering, Heaven be thanked."

That sounds to me rather like a brush off and I frown at him. "He is my friend, Mr. Holmes. I want to know."

He nods, his eyes down once more. "Watson has... suffered unnecessarily. It is not for me to say how much. It is for him to determine how much you should know, when he makes his statement. Frankly, Inspector, you might not wish to know too many of the details."

"I am his friend," I repeat quietly. "And yours as well. Neither one of you need spare details — you have my support."

"Thank you. However, as your friend, I feel I should spare you the details. As his, I feel that it is not my place to tell too much in any case."

There is an awkward silence. I fidget.

"I did not mean..."

"No. I know."

He smiles at me — one of those bright flashes that is gone as fast as it appears. I can see that he is still nervous and maybe upset. What does he know? What is he keeping from me? And... why is he apparently trying to protect me? Does he think that I am weaker than he is?


	15. Chapter 15

_**I hope that I have not gone too far in the telling of this chapter, but something of the hardship and mistreatment endured by Doctor Watson had to be divulged, or else elements of the story will not make sense.**_

* * *

Irritated though I am with my friend, I can't help but notice that Mr. Holmes has not slept a wink and I know I should... help, if I am able to do so. Even ignoring the dark circles under his eyes, he's only changed out of his disguise and into clean trousers and fresh shirt, with his dressing gown over it. I am not going to ask if he has been up all night, as I might were I talking to a normal man. Better to be direct and let him know how obvious it is, even to me (slow, stupid, bumbling Lestrade).

"Mr. Holmes, why have you not even tried to sleep?"

He stares sharply at me. "I could not let the fire go out. I already suspect... nay, I already have perceived ample warning signs that Watson is catching a cold — he should be kept warm."

"I can keep the fire burning," I tell him. "I can watch over the doctor and wake you when he asks for you. He needs you to rest, Mr. Holmes — what good will it do if you let yourself fall ill, eh? Doctor Watson needs you fit, healthy and well rested. I'll take a day or two, as you already suggested, and we'll take turns at keeping the fire going and watching over the doctor. If you agree."

His lips are set in a thin line and he is looking at the floor. Eventually, he gives a slight nod and looks me in the eye.

"You are kind. Very kind. Thank you."

"Go and get some sleep," I urge him. "We'll still be here when you wake up. Are you hungry?"

He shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. "I have been picking at the fruit bowl all through the night. I shall live. Too weary now to feel hunger, anyhow."

"You're lucky I'm awake, then. Sleep well."

He huffs a silent laugh and disappears inside his bedroom. Good! The doctor will rest better if he does not have to worry about Mr. Holmes.

I pick a handful of grapes from the bunch in the fruit bowl, while I tend the fire and keep my vigil. A little later, I take an apple. I hope Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson will not mind, but I am actually quite peckish.

I have just tossed the apple core onto the hot coals and added another piece of wood when there is a knock at the door. I hear the voice of McPherson ask for me and creep onto the landing as fast as I can go. I gesture for the constable to come up quietly and then stop, wondering what to do. We can't talk in the parlour — we are likely to disturb the doctor or Mr. Holmes. Well, we are more than likely to disturb Mr. Holmes. He has probably awoke at the sound of the knock from downstairs.

Making a decision, I take the constable up the next flight of stairs and into the bathroom. This room is less private a place than the doctor's bedroom — and it is far enough away from my resting friends for me to feel comfortable talking quietly.

"Strange place to make my report."

I shrug and explain that I am the only one of the three of us awake at present. "What have you to report?"

He fidgets with his helmet and clears his throat. "The criminal — Matthew Hedgecock, he says his name is — that was gagged and bound in the warehouse has been questioned. He says you and Mr. Holmes attacked him with more force than was necessary."

"I was not there, so Mr. Holmes will have to give his own account of what happened. I doubt very much that he would have done more than make sure the man could neither do harm nor escape, however. His mind would have been on the doctor's condition, not on hurting a criminal."

He nods and relaxes somewhat.

"Is that all?"

"Uh... well, no. The reason I half believed him was that... well... he claimed that Mr. Holmes was angry because the doctor... his trousers were wet, when he found him. Hedgecock said that he had not been able to look after him properly because he could not be there at all times..."

"I see," I reply coldly.

Yes, Mr. Holmes would have been upset about that. I am not exactly delighted, myself. That explains why he had wanted to see that the doctor was clean (and dry) before he took him out into the street. He must have been cold and uncomfortable enough as it was when we put him in the growler, without that.

"Yes... but the claim did not ring true for very long. You see... the only chair in the place was the one we found him securely tied to, so the doctor must have been in it first — and it was filthy! We removed it from the building, but the smell remained. We found a bundle of clothing concealed behind some shelving. It seemed to me..."

"The doctor had cleaned himself up and attempted to hide the clothes." I recall him telling Holmes that he was ashamed and didn't want to be seen 'like that'.

"Yes, sir. With the state they were in, I would say he had been left secured in the chair the entire time he was there and had not been 'looked after' at all."

I feel a rush of anger and nausea. Mr. Holmes had all but told me all this — not so much by what he said, but by what he did not say. He relied on my stupid, slow brain to overlook every single sodding clue! Did he think I would lash out at the criminal, had I known? Did he think I might ruin my career over the vile creature? I would not. But I might not have been so quick to speak of police brutality of all things to him — police brutality be damned!

"If Mr. Holmes lashed out at that bloody criminal, he has my utmost sympathy and heartfelt blessing!" I declare. "If he falls foul of the law over it, I would get him off or else resign."

"Are you all right, sir?"

"No. Should I be?"

No, no, no! We never do that — we do not take our anger out on our constables!

"Sorry, sir. Maybe I shouldn't have told you, just yet."

I feel another flare of anger — I do not need to be treated like an invalid! — but I swallow my rage this time.

"I am sorry, McPherson," I say after a moment. "My anger should not have been directed at you. This is not your fault. It is not the fault of Mr. Holmes or Doctor Watson, either. Mr. Holmes did not want me to know without the doctor's consent — now I know what he was keeping from me, I understand. I am beginning to, anyway."

He nods, but still looks nervous.

"It is this Hedgecock that I am angry with," I continue with a low growl. "That he could treat gentle, compassionate Doctor Watson in the way that he did is bad enough — to then cry 'police brutality'... Mr. Holmes said that the doctor had been... how did he put it? 'Suffering unnecessarily', I think is how he put it. I thought he was talking about the doctor being denied drinking water. Not that that was not bad enough."

"Is there anything I can do, sir? How is Doctor Watson?"

I shake my head. "There is nothing you can do here. The doctor is safe, Mr. Holmes and I are taking turns watching over him... speaking of which, I should return to my post. Doctor Watson is yet to wake, as far as I know, but Mr. Holmes is worried that he is catching a cold. I suppose we should be grateful that his condition is not more serious."

He nods and we make our way down the stairs together.

"I'll let myself out, sir — you should be with the doctor. Inspector... we are all fond of Doctor Watson. I understand the anger."

"Thank you, Constable. I am heartily sorry for turning it upon you, all the same."

I return to the parlour to find that the doctor has not been disturbed and Mr. Holmes is apparently still in bed. Good! I am glad that my voice automatically becomes quieter, rather than louder, when I am in a state of fury. And I am furious! I am angrier than I have ever been in the course of my entire career!


	16. Chapter 16

The clock has just chimed the quarter to one and the doctor is beginning to stir on his couch. I am moving to to stand in an instant. Is he awake, or just moving? He sneezes twice and moans, rubbing at his eyes as he attempts to sit up without hurting his sores and injuries.

"Holmes?"

His voice is still very quiet. He still sounds more like a frog than a man, in spite of the painful raspiness that I can plainly hear. His voice has a slight gurgling to it, now, like he's trying to talk underwater.

"I told him to rest, Doctor," I explain to him softly, making my way to his side as quietly as I can. "I thought you would find it easier to rest if you knew that he was looking after himself."

He sniffs and nods. "Thank you. Holmes is usually in my line of sight... I feared for him."

It takes a moment for me to realise that Doctor Watson means to say that our mutual friend would usually stay at his side, if he had been hurt — unless something had happened to keep Mr. Holmes from being there. I deflate slightly, realising that I have caused distress by interfering.

"Yes. That should have occurred to me. Try not to worry about our friend, Doctor. He is safe — just tired out."

"Thank you. For making him rest."

I smirk, amused. "I don't know about 'making him', Doctor; I don't know if you can make him do anything. But I did persuade him. Well, now you know Mr. Holmes is all right, can you tell me how you are?"

He shrugs one shoulder.

"Would you like a drink?"

He grimaces. "I would, but I think I should like to... move, first."

There is a cane within easy reach. I take it and hand it to him before I help him to stand and offer him my shoulder for extra support. He is weaker than I ever remember seeing him and his hands are both too cold and too warm. I walk him as far as the lavatory door and then stand outside awkwardly, not knowing what I should do. The doctor will want privacy, but I feel better knowing that I am close enough to hand to give help should he need it.

He does not take long. Once the plumbing starts to make its noises, I tap on the door and ask if he wants any help.

"Do not trouble yourself."

"Doctor Watson, I've already told you that it's no trouble. I want to help, if you need it — if you'll allow me to."

"Thank you. I can manage."

Well, I tried. At least I've let him know that I am prepared to help. But... well... I do understand him. Under the circumstances, I would want to be left alone, myself.

When he emerges, I ask if there is anything that he might want.

"Tea, please. Not too sweet, with plenty of milk. The milk will do me good."

I nod and ring for tea.

"Would you like biscuits, Doctor? You could dip them in the tea, if it might make them easier for you to eat."

I open the tin which has been left on the coffee table. They must have been put there last night. Did I remember to tell Mrs. Hudson that they were in my coat pocket, or did she or one of the servants find it?

"Let me see... there are ginger biscuits, butter biscuits, cinnamon biscuits..."

"I am not feeling very hungry."

I turn to frown at him. "You need to eat something — even if you just eat a biscuit or some toast..."

He nods and screws his eyes shut, hastily covering his face with the handkerchief I gave him earlier before pitching forward.

"Bless you, Doctor! And save you and bless you again."

He sniffs and quietly blows his nose, muttering something about not wanting to wake Mr. Holmes.

"You take care of yourself and I'll look after Mr. Holmes. I think that's a fair bargain, don't you?"

He nods again, dislodging another sneeze.

"Bless you." I think I am going to find myself repeating that phrase rather frequently today. "Here, would you like some fruit?"

He pales slightly and shakes his head as I show him the contents of the fruit bowl.

"Doctor...? I've heard an apple a day will keep the doctor away, but I've never seen a reaction like that before! Would you tell me what's wrong?"

"He brought me fruit. A furry orange and a brown, almost liquid banana. And a very bruised and dirty apple. Please... no fruit. Not yet. Please!"

I hope to goodness he didn't eat any of that rubbish! A stomach upset on top of everything else would be awful!

"Very nice. I'll have to see that we show him the same hospitality. Did he give you any grapes to try? Good! That's a blessing. Here, try one. I know they're delicious because I've been picking at them, myself."

He chews delicately and swallows the fruit before answering. "They are very good."

"They are. Grapes are good. Here, have a small bunch, Doctor. And here's Mrs. Hudson with the tea — I'll just get the door."

I'm starting to think I might need to wake Mr. Holmes, but I would rather let him sleep. What should I do?


End file.
